Your mind, trained to measure value, starts doing something strange.
It stops calculating profit and starts calculating survival.
You lean forward. “Where do you sleep when there’s no shelter.”
Samuel’s jaw tightens, just a little. “We… find places.”
“Like where,” you press, and you hate yourself for interrogating a child.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Jimena peeks from behind him, and her eyes are watchful, smart, and older than her face.
Samuel finally says, “Near the bus station sometimes. Under a roof.”
Your coffee tastes bitter.
You look around at the polished restaurant, the quiet luxury, the valet in the distance, and you think of three kids counting rooflines like blessings.
You take out your phone.
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